Under God

When I hear that Anthem stirring
My hand goes immediately to my chest
As I instinctively give allegiance
To the country God has blessed.

Then as the words of our Anthem begin
And play upon my ears
No matter how I try
I can't hold back the tears.

And when the fifty Stars and Thirteen Stripes
Are rising upon the pole
It sends a surge of pride right through me
And permeates my very soul.

Then when It's risen to the very top
And it flutters in the wind
I can't help but think of our victories
And realize how very blessed we've been.

Then when I look toward Heaven
And ask why our Country is so grand
In a whisper God answers back and says,
" Because you are under My Hand. "

By the Poet Patriot - David Whitehead, Jr.
Copyright 2002 David Whitehead, Jr.

 

 

I Wouldn't Know

I often wonder what it's like to live here in this Land,
To Know everything It stands for, and still not give a damn.
What it's like to know the things that it that make our Country rare,
Things like Freedom and Opportunity, and still not really care?
I wouldn't know

How does one partake of that Freedom, but for our Nation have no love?
And how could anyone possibly believe that we are not truly blessed from above?
How could someone live here, and not be thankful for what we have?
And how could anyone be scornful of America, and in the face of Patriotism laugh?
I wouldn't know.

How does one not exercise his right to vote and never take a part,
And never raise a hand to help unless he has no heart?
And how does he rail against this Nation though he benefits from every right,
And how does he fail to defend her; running away when the rest must fight?
I wouldn't know

How does one not feel a trill at the raising of our flag?
And refuse to Pledge Allegiance as if they'd just been gagged?
And how does one protest every time our Anthem is played?
After all America has meant to her people, how could anyone feel this way?
I wouldn't know.

By the Poet Patriot - David Whitehead, Jr.
Copyright 2002 David Whitehead, Jr.

 

 

OUR TEARS AND THANKS
by James J. Metcalfe

The bugle leaves a soldier's lips
     The echo fades away;
All heads fare bowed in silence as
     We meditate and pray.

The Stars and Stripes are lowered now
     By hands that reverently
Salute our sons who fought and died
     For peace and liberty.

We contemplate the courage true
     Of those who gave their all
As we ask God to cover them
     With His protective shawl.

And we give thanks to everyone
     Who wore a uniform
And served our country faithfully
     In time of stress and storm.

All veterans of every war
     Who did their best to strive
For justice and equality
     To keep the world alive.


Taken from: Poem Portraits For All Occasions
                      by James J. Metcalfe 1961
                         $3.50 (hardcover!)



Poet-philosopher James Metcalfe's many exciting careers--as lawyer, 
FBI agent,and prize-winning journalist--are in startling contrast to the 
lyrical beautyand quiet wisdom of his poems.  His "Poem Portraits" 
delighted and comfortedmillions of Americans and were syndicated in 
over one hundred newspapersacross the nation.

 

 

"No, Freedom Isn't Free"
Author Unknown

I watched the flag pass by one day.
It fluttered in the breeze.
A young Marine saluted it,
And then he stood at ease.
I looked at him in uniform
So young, so tall, so proud,
With hair cut square and eyes alert
He'd stand out in any crowd.
I thought how many men like him
Had fallen through the years.
How many died on foreign soil?
How many mothers' tears?
How many pilots' planes shot down?
How many died at sea?
How many foxholes were soldiers' graves?
No, freedom isn't free.

I heard the sound of taps one night,
When everything was still
I listened to the bugler play
And felt a sudden chill.
I wondered just how many times
That taps had meant "Amen,"
When a flag had draped a coffin
Of a brother or a friend.
I thought of all the children,
Of the mothers and the wives,
Of fathers, sons and husbands
With interrupted lives.
I thought about a graveyard
At the bottom of the sea
Of unmarked graves in Arlington.
No, freedom isn't free.




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